Mutual
by OfAClassicalMind
Summary: A 'what-if' scenario in which two pivotal scenes from the film take place at the same time, and the aftermath. Fun to read. Written by a Yank on holiday in the UK.
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, parts of the dialogue, or the events leading up to this scenario. This is simply a 'what-if' scene that developed in my head while on a solo-trip to the UK this December. What you are reading (chapter one) was conceived and written entirely on my iPhone during my stay. I hope you enjoy it!  
_**

* * *

"Do you recognize this?"

A look of joy, followed by deep pain and confusion danced with the Dowager's brows as she gingerly took the music box and examined it, hardly believing it was real.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered.

He took a breath, desperately trying to forget what she'd brought to the front of his memory.

"Look, I know you've been hurt," he began, "but it's just possible that she's been as lost and alone as you."

She took offense to this comment, offering a scowl.

"You'll stop at nothing, will you?"

He stood with effort, the weight of his heart allowing gravity to work more effectively. Staring her down, he smirked.

"I'm probably about as stubborn as you are."

She sighed, then looked back to the music box, allowing a small smile to grace her lips.

"Did you plan this with her? Does she know?" she asked quietly, her eyes never leaving the jeweled box in her fingers.

He shook his head fiercely.

"No!" he said hastily, putting his plans up in defense. "No! She had no idea about the con."

The Dowager looked back at him after a moment, her face suddenly unreadable. He dared to meet her eyes once more.

"Please..." He whispered. "One chance, that's all I'm asking for. I don't want the money, I'll even leave Paris tonight..."

He swallowed the crack in his voice, evidence that he was failing to shove his emotions down his own throat.

"She deserves the world, and if I can give her that, I will. You have to meet with her. Please."

The Dowager did nothing for a moment. Then, of all things, she laughed.

"You really believe in this girl, don't you?" she inquired.

He stared at the ground.

"How I feel doesn't matter," he muttered. "All I know is she's the real thing. And you'd be making the biggest mistake of your life to turn her away."

The Dowager tilted her head slightly to the side, considering his countenance as his eyes were cast downward.

"Very well," she stated, noticing the way his eyes ignited. "I'll meet with her."

"Thank you! Thank you, your Highness!"

"Have her brought to my townhouse tomorrow morning," she continued. "I've had far too much excitement for one evening, and there is only so much my poor heart can take."

At that moment, three police cars rounded the street corner, sirens whining, stopping abruptly beside them.

He stood his ground, fighting the oh-so familiar urge to fly in the opposite direction, because he now knew what running would mean for him; for Anya.

The Dowager took note of this choice, and saw the silhouette of a young woman move past the window. She thought about how much this young man believed in this stranger, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe it too.

She hardly noticed Ilya, her chauffeur, step out of the first police car, wagging a finger at Dimitri as the other men climbed out.

"It was him!" exclaimed the young man. "He kidnapped the Dowager!"

The captain and a few of his men ran over to Dimitri, and he refused to wince as they roughly pulled his hands behind his back, cuffing him. Though he could feel the cold steel cutting his skin, he did not resist, stubbornly looking down at the ground as Ilya clumsily bowed to the Dowager.

"Your Highness, are you-"

"Ilya, this is unnecessary," she said, stopping them all in their tracks. "It was a simple misunderstanding. We've resolved it. After all," she continued, giving Dimitri a sidelong glance, "he's leaving Paris tomorrow."

Dimitri's face did nothing to reveal the searing ache he felt at the implication of her words as, slowly, the officers freed him from his restraints. The captain stepped to face him, eyes narrowed.

"We expect to see you board a train tomorrow morning," he grumbled. "If we find you're still in the city by noon, you'll be arrested."

Dimitri gritted his teeth, offering the captain a stiff nod. He watched as they briskly walked away, then noticed the Dowager's chauffeur staring him down. He tried to smile, extending a hand to the frazzled man.

"I apologize for the inc-"

He felt the man's fist abruptly connect with his cheek, and he stumbled at the impact, looking up just in time to see the Dowager's smile.

"I look forward to meeting her in the morning," she stated simply.

He nodded thankfully, and as soon as he had regained his balance, another stone-cold punch from the chauffeur sent him spiraling to the ground. How had stars found their way down to the sidewalk?

Satisfied with his work, Ilya closed the car door for the Dowager before climbing in and driving off. Dimitri slowly came to his feet.

He could already feel his face beginning to bruise, refusing to touch the pounding flesh of his cheeks and nose. The last time he'd been hit this badly was-

Anastasia.

He had to tell Anya about the following morning. He doubted she would listen to anything he had to say, but he had to try. She'd come too far to never find out who she was.

Begrudgingly, he entered Sophie's home, and heard her French maid gasp at the sight of his face. Perfect. He wouldn't have to answer any questions.

He made his way up the stairs, pausing to listen when he'd reached her room. The faint rustle of bags and clothes confirmed what he already knew in his heart; she was planning on going back to Saint Petersburg.

She was giving up. And he couldn't let that happen.

Without another thought, he knocked on the door.

"Go _away_ , Dimitri."

She'd never let him in, not after what he'd done to her. So, he opened the door himself.

He'd only taken two steps inside when he saw her stiffen, then turn on her heel to face him. She was so beautiful when she was angry, it unnerved him.

And that dress. Dear god, it was breathtaking. Her bare shoulders were just begging to be touched, and he briefly wondered what it might feel like to brush his lips against the creamy skin he saw there, and what soft noises she might make...

She'd planned to say something smart, he could see traces of it in her eyes. But at the sight of his face, her frown relaxed slightly.

"What happened to you?"

He closed the door behind him, putting his hands in his pockets. He pressed away the idea that she might actually care. She hated him. That had been clear from the slap she'd given him at the ballet.

"That wasn't me... Was it?" she whispered.

He shook his head at this, the headache made worse by it. Business. This was simply business, and then he could get on with his meaningless life.

"I spoke with the Dowager again," he began, "and she wants to see you. Tomorrow morning."

Her scowl came back, and she crossed her arms.

"I'm leaving tonight," she said roughly. "I'm going back to Saint Petersburg."

"Well, then, it looks like we'll be sharing the same train," he countered.

She froze.

"You're leav-"

"Yeah," he abruptly answered.

She hugged herself more tightly.

"But you were-"

"Yes, I was," he explained. "But not anymore."

He watched as she pressed her eyes shut, clutching her necklace as if her life depended on it.

"Why the sudden change of mind?" she all but whispered.

He wasn't sure she wanted to hear the true answer, but some sadistic part of him wanted her to suffer. For all of it; for bringing him here, for making him love her. He had just weathered the most tumultuous three days of his lifetime, and she had been at the center of the tempest. He looked at his pants hem, trying to word what he wanted to say.

"It was more a change of heart."

He looked at her then, and she was no longer his Anya, but the Grand Duchess Anastasia, last remaining heir to the throne of Russia. Regal, elegant, and thoroughly unattainable.

The way her expression had changed with his remark cut through to his very soul. He was treading dangerous ground now.

"I must go," he said brokenly. "Good luck, your Grace."

He turned to leave the room, when-

"Dimitri?"

He was halfway toward the door as he stopped in his tracks. There was something in her voice that terrified him. He felt her approach him rather than saw her do so.

"What happened to your face?" she asked.

He turned to look at her when she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. She examined his face silently.

"We should put some ice on that," she said, reaching out to just brush his left cheekbone. He winced, pulling away from her insistent fingers.

"I'm fine, Anya."

Her eyes lit up at the way he said her name, and something was suddenly different. The air shifted, and a chill blew through the room, though the night air outside was warm and still.

It made him uneasy.

"Look, I have to be out of the city by noon tomorrow, and I should get my things toge-"

"You... It was you, wasn't it? You were the boy," she murmured, searching his eyes. "The servant boy who got us out."

A wave of something inexplicable washed over him at this, and his eyes fluttered closed as she brushed his unruly hair from his face. Of course, she had remembered. She was Anastasia.

"You saved my life, then restored me to my grandmothe-r-"

"I haven't yet-"

"But you would have."

He opened his eyes when he felt her hand spread itself against his chest, directly over his heart. She had come closer, and now their faces were inches apart.

"Don't leave," she breathed. "Please, not tonight."

He covered her hand with his own, bringing it to his lips.

"You belong here," he said. "With your family. I can't stay."

She quickly withdrew her hand from his, taking a step back. The fire had returned to her eyes.

"I thought we were family."

And in that moment, all was lost. For him, at least.

He stood rooted to the spot as he watched her walk back to her suitcase. She took the jewels and pin out of her hair, and the way the wavy locks tumbled down her shoulders forced his heart wide open; his walls, unmade by a mere hairpin.

Just as she reached for another article of clothing to pack, he turned her around, forcing her to face him.

"Dimitri-"

He planted his lips upon hers, immediately reveling in their softness. She moved her lips against his, and he moaned as she more than welcomed the contact. She tasted like lavender and honey.

He pulled back for a moment, looking into those deep, blue, unmistakably Romanov eyes.

"We _are_ family."

She smiled at him, and it was one he would never forget. She kissed him again, the same smile still gracing her lips. No matter what happened tomorrow, or the next day, or ten years from now, he would remember that smile. He would live for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**_This is part two, also written in the UK as my flight was delayed out of Heathrow. Debating on writing one last chapter to seal the deal._**

* * *

She wouldn't cry, she kept telling herself. It wasn't in her nature. Never had been.

And yet, here she was, packing her bag as quickly as she could, fighting back tears with an iron will.

He'd lied to her.

Not just at the beginning, but through to the very end. And here she was, still believing and almost hoping he might actually-

God, she was so _furious_. In all the years that she could remember, she had never experienced anger like this. Never.

She crossed her arms for a brief moment, deep in thought, clutching her necklace-

The unexpected sensation of her fingertips against her bare collarbone reminded her that she's left it on the armoire by the window before the ballet.

As she walked past the open window, her headache was aided by the nearby sirens and lights of some police officers. She could close the window, but something told her she needed the air.

As she took off the diamond choker, she felt part of the pressure of the night's events relieve their hold. She was slowly becoming herself again, and it felt so right to hold the necklace in her fingers once more.

The chilly gold of the pendant against her chest reminded her of the winters she had spent in the orphanage, and the nights that she had dreamed of coming here, to Paris.

It was nothing like she'd dreamed it would be. He had ruined everything. _Everything_.

The tears had finally disappeared, leaving an emptiness she couldn't bear in their wake. As she continued to pack her things, she tried to plan what would happen when she got back to Saint Petersburg. She picked up the dress she'd worn to dinner that evening, and caught a glimpse of red.

She held the rose tenderly, almost smiling, when she caught herself. Without a second thought, she dropped it in the bin. Good riddance.

A knock on the door jolted her. In her very bones, she could tell it was him. She reached for the blue dress he'd bought her, already neatly folded, and put it in the suitcase a bit too forcefully.

"Go away, Dimitri."

She heard the door open, and she froze. In an instant, she pushed away every happy memory, every smile he'd ever given her. Nearly too tired to fight it anymore, she mustered the courage to turn around and face him, ready for battle.

Judging by his face, the battle had already found him. His left cheek was bruised, turning more purple even as she stared, and a black eye was already forming around the warm chestnut eye she'd always found there. His lips were swollen, almost deliciously so, and a little blood had gathered in the corner of his mouth.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

She saw him clench his jaw tightly before he turned and closed the door. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop staring at his face. It was then that she remembered-God, she couldn't have hit him that hard...

"That wasn't me... Was it?" she whispered.

He shook his head, and she was slightly relieved, but he still didn't explain anything. Why wasn't he speaking to her?

"I spoke with the Dowager again," he began, "and she wants to see you. Tomorrow morning."

She huffed at this. The nerve of this man appalled her; for him to think he could still carry out the con was abominable. Stubbornly, she crossed her arms to protect herself from the feelings that were beginning to bubble up to the surface all over again.

"I'm leaving tonight," she said roughly. "I'm going back to Saint Petersburg."

"Well, then, it looks like we'll be sharing the same train," he countered.

Wait a minute. That meant-but, he couldn't-

"You're leav-"

"Yeah," he abruptly answered.

Hopeful thoughts began to tango with her heart, and she clenched her arms more tightly to protect herself.

Why would he leave if he was planning to take the money?

"But you were-"

"Yes, I was," he explained. "But not anymore."

She closed her eyes and grasped her necklace, willing herself to stay calm. He was refusing the money, and she felt she knew why, but didn't dare hope for it. There had to be another reason.

"Why the sudden change of mind?" she all but whispered.

He didn't answer her immediately, and in that moment her blood stopped pumping. If he didn't reply, she might perish at his hands. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at his feet.

"It was more a change of heart."

His toasty chestnut eyes met hers, and in that moment, she knew. It was written all over his battered face.

It hadn't been about the money for a long time now. Every hope she had experienced on their journey was mutual.

Her heart flushed something warm and unnameable through her veins, and she vibrated with its energy.

"I must go," he said brokenly. "Good luck, your Grace."

He turned and started for the door, and she felt the strings that connected their very souls together begin to detach.

"Dimitri?"

He stopped where he was, but intentionally kept his back to her. No, sir. Not this time.

"What happened to your face?" she asked.

He still didn't respond, so she stepped toward him, daring to put a hand on his shoulder. Slightly startled, he turned to face her.

His cheek looked bad, and it had to hurt. To be fair, it complemented his nose quite nicely... Regardless of how it got that way, he needed to stop the bruising.

"We should put some ice on that," she said, grazing his left cheek with her fingertips so as not to cause him any more pain. He flinched, of course, pulling his head away from her hand.

"I'm fine, Anya."

It was the first time he'd said her name since their argument at the ballet. She thought back to what he might have been trying to say to her, about the little boy and the wall, but she had been so angry she hadn't heard him-

And then she realized something. Years of cloud, and fog, and nightmares she couldn't escape...

And yet she saw one face so clearly.

The face of a frightened little boy.

The face that was right in front of her.

Dear god. It was him. Which meant-

He shifted his weight, breaking eye contact.

"Look, I have to be out of the city by noon tomorrow, and I should get my things toge-"

"You... It was you, wasn't it? You were the boy," she murmured, searching his eyes. "The servant boy who got us out."

She marveled at this new thought, at this new memory. Even his hair hadn't changed. She brushed it out of his face, noting how soft it seemed. His eyes closed as she did this, and she wished they hadn't. She needed them here, now, grounding her.

"You saved my life, then restored me to my grandmother-"

"I haven't yet-"

"But you would have."

Why wouldn't he look at her? She stepped closer, bringing her hand down to rest on his chest. His heart was racing, and she wondered if he could feel hers as his eyes opened. She saw him glance at her lips, and she wanted him to try. She _dared_ him to try. His own lips were still swollen from the fight he'd somehow found himself in, and the blood was drying in the corner of his mouth.

"Don't leave," she breathed. "Please, not tonight."

He wrapped her small hand in his, and, for the first time since he'd taken her hand at the ballet, she felt safe. Warm. Protected.

She flushed slightly as he brought it to his lips, pressing a quiet kiss to her knuckles. His lips were so soft against her fingers...

"You belong here," he said. "With your family. I can't stay."

And just like that, every hope was shattered. She stepped back almost immediately at this, surprised and hurt by his remark. Her hand left his as she brought it toward her chest.

"I thought we were family."

She walked back to her suitcase, feeling his eyes on her. If he didn't want to stay, then she wished he would just leave her to her lonely existence.

As she reached for her hair jewels and pin, she wondered what would happen if she stayed in Paris. She now knew, without a doubt, that she was Anastasia; that much had become clear, but without him there... Quite frankly, she'd never forget him. There was no way she could.

She was damned either way.

Her hair fell down her back, and she almost sighed at how good it felt to have it brush against her bare shoulders. She reached for her coat, the last thing she needed to pack, when she felt his hands turning her around.

"Dimitri-"

And before she knew what was happening, his lips were covering hers in an instant, her heart soaring into her throat. Shocked for only a brief moment, she immediately kissed him back, noting the way he moaned into her mouth at her response. Somehow he tasted like sun-dried cherries and sea mist.

She was brought back to reality when he broke the kiss, looking into her eyes. The warmth she found there made her feel like home.

"We _are_ family."

She couldn't remember ever feeling so happy in all her life, so she kissed him again.

And again. And again.

She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, or the next day, but she knew where her evening would be spent.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Here it is. The little conclusion to a little story. This chapter was written the day after I returned to the US. Enjoy._**

* * *

"Oh, Anastasia! My Anastasia!" the Dowager exclaimed.

Anya smiled with relief, allowing the feeling of warmth to wash over her as her grandmama held her close.

After years of dreams, and faces she couldn't remember, she'd finally found her family. This woman, so strong and yet so fragile, shared her blood, her name, her history...

It almost felt like home.

Almost.

But home was how she'd felt the night before, tangled up in the arms and breaths of a con-man as they moved beneath the moonlight.

Home was the way she felt when he pouted at her after she called him a baby for flinching at the ice she pressed to his cheek.

Home was the way he'd kissed her goodbye before he headed to the train station just an hour previously.

Home was probably on a train back to Saint Petersburg.

The Dowager pulled back, cupping her cheek with a smile.

"What troubles you, my dear?" she asked.

Anya felt her smile falter slightly.

"It's just-"

"It's the boy, isn't it?" interrupted the Dowager. "You care for him."

Of course she could see it. Nothing ever got by a Romanov.

Anya stood, feeling the blue skirt of her oversized dress brush against her ankles. As she crossed to the window, she thought about where that train might be.

"He's the most frustrating person I've ever met," she murmured, closing her eyes as the memories pumped through her veins. "He's pig-headed, annoying, and always tells me what I don't want to hear, because he knows I need to hear it. He's hates it when anyone tries to help him, but he actually lets me do it."

She turned to face her grandmother, resolute at last.

"And I love him for it. All of it," she declared. "I've finally found _you_ , for the first time in a decade, but he's all I can think about. It doesn't make sense."

The Dowager simply smiled.

"He sounds like the perfect match for you."

Anya tried to smile.

"He is," she agreed. "But princesses don't marry kitchen boys. And I've only really known him for a few days... What if I'm wrong? What if _it's_ wrong?"

The Dowager gestured to the place beside her on the chaise, and Anya obliged.

"My dear, you hardly know _me_ ," her grandmama pointed out, taking her bare hands into her gloved ones. "The two of you were born into very different worlds, but I think you may be more suited to the life you could give one another than any I could ever give you."

Anya frowned.

"So... You think I should go with him?" she whispered.

The Dowager pulled her close once more.

"Knowing that you are so alive, seeing the woman you've become..." The Dowager took a deep breath. "It brings me joy I never thought I could feel again."

Anya wrapped her arms tightly around her grandmother, allowing the pain, the years of loneliness, to wash over her.

"Whatever you choose, we will always have each other," her grandmother murmured in her ear.

A warm tear or two fell on her shoulder, and Anya felt the hot sting of her own as they trickled down her cheeks. But she was smiling, because at long last, she knew where she belonged.

* * *

This was the last eastbound train he could board before noon. It was 11:35, and he'd failed to board the last three, merely because he still hoped she'd come flying down the platform toward him.

But he knew she wouldn't, because she was here, in Paris. Because she had found her true family. She was home at last.

He sighed, and the depth of it rattled his bones as he stood. She wasn't coming.

The weight of his suitcase seemed light when juxtaposed with that of his heart, but he had no more time.

He boarded the train and found his compartment with a numb sort of ease. The hours were off-peak for the train line, so as the train began to shift slowly away from the station, he noted that he had the entire compartment to himself. The idea of being alone with his thoughts utterly destroyed him.

This time, he took the window seat, since there wasn't a small dog threatening his ass. Quite appropriately, he was facing Paris. Something she'd once said about 'making Paris his true home' came back to him, and he winced internally, resting his right cheek in his hand.

He glanced outside at the station as it sluggishly moved past the window, and noticed a deep blue dress running along the platform, searching for something.

Or someone.

Without thinking, he grabbed his suitcase and ran to the end of the train carriage, just in time to see her face light up.

"Dimitri!"

He grinned, ignoring the pain in his face as he did so, before jumping off onto the platform. The blue dress met him, and he dropped his suitcase to hold her so tightly he wasn't sure where he ended, and where she began.

"I thought you hated trains," she said sarcastically, pulling back to look at him.

He smiled.

"I do," he said. "But only when you're not there to save me from them."

She smirked, pulling him into a kiss as the few people on the platform applauded.

The City of Love, indeed.


End file.
